


Fate in the Flames

by SorchaCahill



Series: The Adventures of Young Trevelyan [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avvar, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, OC Inquisitor.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-06 07:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13406295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorchaCahill/pseuds/SorchaCahill
Summary: Bríghid Trevelyan's been missing for nearly ten years until she shows up in Haven after the Conclave to find that her brother Gideon wears the mark she was supposed to wear. The Avvar clan's auger had told her that it was her fate to help heal the Lady of the Skies so what happens now?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is an AU of my slightly AU canon playthrough in where Bríghid _does_ spend nearly ten years with the Avvar but makes it to the Conclave and becomes the Herald (lucky her). I've incepted myself. YAY! 
> 
> Not sure where this will be heading exactly. I guess that's what happens when you write in a fugue state.

Cullen stood outside the cell, glaring at its occupant. He’d taken it upon himself to watch her rather than leave it to someone else as she’d proven that she was trouble. As if he didn’t have a million other things that needed doing but he wanted to be here when the Herald finally arrived. This situation needed to be resolved. Quickly.

Four hours ago two of Leliana’s scouts had caught her skulking around the borders of Haven. To hear them tell it she’d appeared out of nowhere. They’d initially tried to question her about her intentions but the encounter had turned hostile when they’d tried to bring her in. He’d been standing at the gates going over the training schedule when he heard the shouts and had turned around in time to see Scouts Tifa and Logan struggling with a mud-covered wild thing, barely able to restrain her between the two of them. He’d made it over just in time to see the woman smash her head into Logan’s face, blood spurting from his nose. Remembering the incident, he scowled at her. In response she  jutted her chin out and stared at him defiantly. His scowl deepened and he wish for simpler times as he went over the incident again in his head.

“What in the Maker’s name is going on here?”

“I’m sorry Commander, we found her sneaking in. She’s rather insistent about seeing the Herald.”

“She can insist all she wants but it’s not going to happen.”

 _“Prøv å stoppe meg, du bakrauf,”_ yelled the woman as she struggled in the scouts’ arms. She managed to free one of her arms and rammed her fist backward so that it hit Logan in the groin before flipping over Tifa’s back, pulling out a knife seemingly from thin air and pressed it against the scout’s throat. Several guards had come running at the commotion but Cullen waved them back, not wanting to escalate the situation any more than it already was.

“Herald. Now,” she growled at them. Was it Cullen’s imagination or did he hear a slight Marcher accent coming from her?

“You’ll get nothing but a jail cell if you harm my scout,” he said, keeping his eyes on the Avvar. She was a wild thing, covered in mud-paint, her green eyes flashing out at him as she snarled. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lysette approaching, a pair of manacles in her hands. Which was all well and good but meant nothing if they couldn’t subdue her long enough to get them on her.

“The Herald,” she said again, pressing her knife harder against Tifa’s throat. A gust of wind picked up, whipping her braided red hair around her. Despite himself he felt his heart thump at the image. She looked like a wild thing, raw and powerful and not easily tamed. "You will bring me to him.  _Now._ "

Before Cullen could respond he heard the sharp whiff of an arrow brush past his ear and a bloom of smoke appeared just a few feet in front of him, surrounding both Tifa and the Avvar woman. Caught off guard, the woman released Tifa as she choked on the smoke. He moved quickly even as he cursed, having a decent idea who had made the shot; he’d have word with her later or have the Herald do it since they seemed to be on relatively good terms. Lunging forward, he grabbed onto the Avvar woman, wrapping her tight in his arms, yelling for Lysette to bring the manacles. The Avvar struggled against him, trying to twist her way out and he narrowly avoided getting a bloodied nose when she flung her head backwards but she did manage to get a solid hit to his jaw.

“There, Commander, I’ve got her secured.” No sooner did Lysette finish speaking than did Cullen feel a leg hook behind his knee, putting him off balance. Unprepared for such a move, he landed on his back, the air expelling from his lungs with the Avvar woman still in his arms. She tried to twist out of his grasp but Lysette and two other guards were there before she could do anything more than thrash in Cullen’s arms. They hauled her up to her feet, a guard on each side holding her firmly. Cullen brushed away Lysette’s hand and pushed himself up and got to his feet.

“ _Now_ do you have her secure?”

“Sorry Commander, we didn’t expect-.”

“That is quite obvious. Get her to the Chantry. It would seem that we still have use for those cells after all.” A chorus of ‘yes sers’ echoed around him as they started to drag the woman away. She caught his eye as they went past, her gaze filled with a mixture of fury and annoyance. “Get her in there quickly. The Herald will deal with her once he returns from the Fallow Mire. And keep those manacles on her dammit.”

“Yes, ser. Of course, ser.”

Cullen followed slowly, working his jaw back and forth. She’d gotten in a good shot, that was for certain.

“Ugh, look at the big man trying to prove himself. Four guards to restrain one little person? Maybe this Inquisition ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“We had it under control.”

“Sure ya did. Proof is in the three bloodied noses and I’m guessing at least one cracked rib.  Can’t help but noticed she barely has a scratch on her. Have to admire that, yeah?”

Before Cullen could form a response Sera scampered off, probably already planning her next bout of mischief. The elf was lucky it had ended without incident. There had been a very good chance that her stunt would have ended with the Avvar’s knife in Tifa’s neck and there would have been hell to pay if it had.

A long drawn out sigh brought him back to the present. It had been close to four hours since she’d shown up and she hadn’t said much besides demanding to see the Herald. He probably should have had one of the guards remove the manacles but he didn’t want to risk putting one of his people in harm’s way needlessly if she proved to be difficult. More difficult than she already was.

She stood in the middle of the cell that the Herald had occupied not all that long ago. The manacles she wore jangled as she shifted on her feet as she stared stonily at him. Some of her Avvar mud-paint had worn off during the struggle, strips of pale skin showing through. Cullen averted his eyes only to be drawn in by the green eyes that flashed out from the Avvar mud-paint that covered half her face. Her lips curved into a wicked smile, causing him to clear his throat and look away.

He hadn’t had many interactions with the Avvar before but they had been rather civilized, more intent on trade than war. This woman had fought like a wild thing and there was no sense to it. He’d heard tales of the clans that roamed near his home in Honnleath as well as those beyond but this woman made them all pale in comparison. And to hear the faint Marcher accent bleed through her voice made it all the more confusing. She’d only spoken in Avvar since they’d put her in the cell and he was beginning to think that he’d imagined it.

He heard the shuffle of feet behind him as Lysette came to his side and spoke softly. “Commander, we just got word. The Herald’s been spotted coming into the valley and should be here shortly. Are you sure about this?”

“No, but what’s done is done. The Herald will hopefully know what to do with her.”

At his words the Avvar woman snickered. His glare deepened, a glare that had made more than one recruit shake in their boots but she simply shrugged it off like oil sliding across a hot pan.

_“Er alle lavlandet dette dumme? Du er dummere enn en festeringkoker på en velsigner bak.”_

Cullen’s jaw tightened. He was pretty sure he’d just been insulted, her tone derisive tone paired with the sneer implied as much. He prayed that the Herald crossed the valley quickly and took this woman off his hand. He had enough headaches as it was.

It was another twenty minutes before he heard movement coming from the entrance to the cells. Heavy footsteps clanged behind them followed by a curse when someone’s head, the Herald’s most likely, hit the low-hanging lantern that hung at the bottom of the stairs. Cullen turned to greet the Herald, internally wincing at the hard grimace on the man’s face as he rubbed at a red spot on his forehead. The man’s scowl deepened as he entered the jail proper, glaring at the mostly empty room. Gideon Trevelyan hadn’t exactly been welcomed with open arms after he woke up and Cullen couldn’t blame the man for not wanting to be reminded of it.

Gideon bent slightly as he passed through the doorway, flanked by Cassandra and Varric. Cullen inwardly groaned at the dwarf’s presence. Word of their Avvar prisoner was no doubt already spreading throughout Haven, no thanks so Sera and the inevitable gossip mill and the dwarf was only going to make it worse with whatever tale he decided to spin.

“I thought I was here to close rifts and fight demons. No one said anything about being a jailor,” the Herald growled. He had just returned from two weeks in the Fallow Mire and looked it. Cullen could imagine that all the man wanted was a bath and a hot meal and here they were shoving more responsibility at him.

“I’m sure the Commander wouldn’t have asked you here without good reason, Gideon. We all know how important it is to close the Breach as soon as possible,” said Cassandra, shooting Cullen a questioning glance. Cullen could only sigh. It wasn’t like he _wanted_ to put even more responsibility on the man’s shoulders but the prisoner wasn’t making that possible.

“My apologies, Herald, but this, uh, woman, demanded to see you. She was caught just outside Haven. It took some work to get her down here as she wasn’t exactly cooperative.” The Avvar woman snorted behind him, muttering something under her breath. Cullen’s jaw tightened and he felt his left eye begin to twitch.

“Wait, you caught her at the _edges_ of Haven, near the wall? That would mean she got past several of Nightingale’s scouts.” Varric whistled appreciatively, earning him a glare from both Cullen and Cassandra.

“Believe me, Leliana will be having words with them.”

“I didn’t realize that I was this popular with the Avvar. First one wants to kill me and now another wants an audience? Lucky me.”

“We need to have a discussion regarding your definition of luck, Herald,” muttered Varric.

The Herald shot the dwarf a grin before straightening. “Well, let’s see what this mysterious Avvar woman wants then. Sooner we get this over with the sooner I can get something to eat.”

Gideon stepped forward and approached the cell. His tanned face lost all its color and went carefully blank as he took her in. Cullen saw him swallow heavily as he stared at her. The woman stared back, her expression carefully neutral but he could swear that there was something that flickered briefly in her gaze. Uncertainty perhaps? No, that was ridiculous. Cullen stepped forward as well, clearing his throat.

“She hasn’t said much at all besides demanding to see you and some rather inventive insults, some of which are anatomically impossible I’m sure.” He noticed that the Herald’s fists were clenched tightly, his knuckles blanching from the effort. “As I said, it took some doing but she’s secured and ready for questioning if your ready.”

 _“Gå og hold hodet på deg, du mangle løven_.”

The Herald let out a short laugh before shaking his head ruefully. If Cullen didn’t know better he’d think that the Herald understood what she’d just said. “Did your people check her for lock picks?”

“Of course they did.”

“You should have had them check more thoroughly. Five gold that she’s already out of those manacles.”

“What? No, that’s not poss-.” Cullen was brought up short as he turned to see the woman give him the world’s biggest shit-eating grin before holding up the manacles from one hand, jangling them slightly in the air.

“Your people are sloppy. I could have been halfway through the village if I hadn’t allowed your scouts to catch me,” she said in perfect common, that Marcher accent coming clearly through.

“That’s easy to say when you’re the one in a cell,” he bit out, the twitch behind his eye growing stronger.

Beside him the Herald snorted. “I have no doubt to her claim. She’s been sneaking in and out of places since she was ten,” he said, never taking his eyes off her.

“Gideon, do you know this woman?” asked Cassandra.

“I used to. May I present Bríghid Gwendolyn Murdina Trevelyan, formerly of Ostwick and presumed to be dead until about five minutes ago.”

Bríghid chuckled, her eyes sparkling dangerously. “Nope, not dead. Now that we’ve established that I’m not a threat to your precious Herald, how about letting me out of here? I wouldn’t say no to a bath and a meal.”

“We’ve established no such thing. Sister or not, you could still-.”

“Oh just let her out, Cullen. She’ll just pick the lock and find the bathhouse on her own,” Gideon paused, drinking in her presence as Cullen grudgingly motioned for one of the guards to open the door. Once open, she dropped the manacles in the guard’s hand and launched herself at the Herald, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. Gideon held her just as tightly, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. After almost a minute he set her back on her feet, a wide grin spreading across his face, one that few in the Inquisition rarely saw. He ran a finger down her face, some of the mud-paint rubbing off onto it.

“You’ve changed your hair.”

“And you’re taller than I remember.”

“And I have _so_ many questions. You never mentioned a sister,” said Varric. Gideon and Bríghid looked over at him, gamine smiles spreading across both of their faces. It struck Cullen then just how similar their features their features were; he would have noticed it sooner if he hadn’t been so busy trying to subdue her.

“I’m sure you do, my dwarven friend, but they’ll have to wait. My sister and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

“My lord Herald-.”

“It can wait Cullen, whatever it is. I haven’t seen her in ten years and I’m sure you have other duties to attend to instead.”

“Yes, of course, Herald,” Cullen said stiffly, swallowing his annoyance at having the tables turned on him by this woman. Bríghid then made it all worse by stepping out of the Herald’s arms and gave them all a perfectly executed curtsy.

“I thank you kind ser, for the accommodations and hospitality.” Laughter threaded her voice as she linked arms with her brother and they walked out of the jail, leaving the others faintly dumbstruck.

It was Varric who broke the silence.

“Oh, I like her,” he said gleefully. “Never a dull moment for the Inquisition is there Seeker?”

Cassandra was uncharacteristically quiet as her eyes followed the receding forms of the Herald and his sister.

“We need to speak with Leliana and Josephine about this and how we’re going to deal with it. The Herald can’t afford to get distracted from our mission.”

“I agree,” Cullen said quietly.

“Well, I don’t. I don’t know about you two but that’s the happiest I've seen Gideon since he walked out of the Fade. If having his sister here gives him even the slightest bit of happiness who are we to deny him that? I say leave it alone. Who knows, she may be an asset to the Inquisition. You never know,” Varric said before walking out of the jail himself, leaving Cassandra and Cullen alone.

“As much as I hate to admit it, Varric does have a point. A very valid one.”

Cullen gaped at her. “You cannot be serious. That woman is pure chaos. You weren’t here when she arrived. There’s no telling what trouble she’ll stir up.”

“Cullen,” Cassandra said softly, resting her hand briefly on his arm. “We’ll still talk with the others but what’s done is done. Let it be for now. If she proves to be too much trouble we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Cullen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine, but I don’t trust her.”

“You don’t have to. We have to trust Gideon in this.”

Cullen sighed again, this time in defeat. No, not defeat, but a strategic retreat. For the safety of the Inquisition and its Herald, he resolved to keep an eye on the troublesome Bríghid Trevelyan. He had a sneaking suspicion the headache he was developing was going to stay as long as she was here.

* * *

Bríghid looked about the small cabin that Gideon had been allotted by the Inquisition. She was a little surprised that they didn’t keep him in the Chantry to keep a closer eye on him considering everything he’d told her about what happened since the Conclave. She cursed herself again for not being quick enough in getting here. Gróa had been insistent that she needed to be here to heal the tear that scarred the Lady of the Skies but she had resisted the auger’s efforts to get her to go. She had left her noble origins behind for a reason and wanted nothing to do with that life ever again and her nagging was just close enough to her parents’ that she’d dug her feet in. It had taken Baldr threatening to banish her from the clan altogether to get her to leave. And now because of her stubbornness her brother had taken her place and was stuck with a mysterious mark.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, wringing out the cloth in her hands before wiping her face. She’d never really gotten used to the Avvar mud-paint but had to admit that it served its purpose.

Gideon glanced down at his hand, rubbing his thumb over the mark. “Not all the time. It’s worse when I get close to an open rift.”

Bríghid cocked her head, her eyes darting to the window to the giant swirling green hole in the sky. “It must hurt pretty bad then when you’re here. I knew it was huge but I wasn’t expecting that.”

“No one does,” Gideon muttered. Shaking his head, he looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “As happy as I am to see you alive and well, why are you here, midget?”

Bríghid placed the cloth on the edge of the bowl before slowly turning to him. Her teeth worried her lower lip as she tried to gather her thoughts in some semblance of order so she could explain it to him. Maker’s balls, _she_ barely understood it and she’d lived with it for the past nine plus years. It didn’t help that Gróa’s visions weren’t exactly clear.

“How much do you know about the Avvar and their way of life?”

Gideon gave her a sharp look. “Not as much as you, obviously. I barely recognized you at first when I saw you in that cell.

Bríghid shrugged, not willing or wanting to apologize for how she lived her life. “They have a different approach to magic and spirits than the rest of Thedas. Each clan has an auger that communes with the spirits.”

“Communes? Wait, you don’t mean _possession_ do you?”

“Not really. Not in the sense you mean. It’s a more… symbiotic relationship. And they can, uh, purge? Yeah, purge the spirit when they’re done. I watched Gróa do it dozens of times. She saw things, saw things in the fire, of what was to come.”

“So help me if you tell me that she can travel through time.”

“What? No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. Wait, you’re serious?”

Gideon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s a long story, one that has nothing to do with why you’re here.”

Now it was Bríghid’s turn to sigh. She sat on the bed, twisting her fingers together, staring at them as if they held the secrets to the universe. “She said that the flames told her I had a destiny, one that didn’t involve the Avvar. She said that the Lady would be torn asunder and that I was needed to heal it.”

Gideon stared at her, gaping like a fish before several moments before closing his mouth. He slumped into a nearby chair and put his head in his hands. Bríghid eyed him warily, giving him time to take in the news. She didn’t bother telling him the other half, the one that involved a lion. The one that she refused to entertain. The spirits weren’t always right afterall. She was in charge of her own destiny.

“Are you just going to sit there like a slack-jawed mule or are you going to say something?” she said after several minutes had passed without him saying anything. Gideon’s head snapped up, his eyes hard, anger showing through.

“What exactly do you expect me to say, Bríghid? You show up out of nowhere, assault Inquisition troops-.”

“They attacked me fir-.”

“Curse out the Commander of the Inquisition-.”

“I’ve known rocks that are less rigid.”

“And now you expect me to believe that this auger of yours sent you on some quest to close the Breach?” He waved his marked hand in front of her. “That’ll be a little hard to do without this, don’t you think?”

“I… well, if I had listened to Gróa sooner there’s a very good chance that I’d be the one wearing that.”

Gideon went deadly still, his eyes boring into her. Bríghid shifted uneasily on the bed. This wasn’t how she wanted this reunion to go. He stood up abruptly, grabbing his cloak as he headed to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere that’s not here. I can’t, I can’t talk about this right now. This mark… you have no idea the cost. Do me a favor, keep the talk about visions and spirits to yourself. We may have taken in the mages but these people are still Andrastean even if the Chantry has disowned us. People find out and you’ll probably find yourself back in that cell. Bathhouse is a couple houses down, look for the steam.”

With that he left before she could respond. She resisted the urge to throw something. Granted she had just unloaded a lot on him, and that was on top of the shock of him discovering that she wasn’t dead. In retrospect she probably could have alleviated that by sending more than a couple of letters to him over the years, one when she left the Free Marches and another after the Blight to let him know she was alive but there was nothing she could do about that now. Now she had to deal with the mess she found herself in and hopefully not be tossed into a cell again by the Inquisition’s commander. He looked like the type that had a schedule and didn’t like it messed with and she imagined that her arrival had taken that schedule and tossed it into the Breach.

He did have a very nice pair of eyes. Probably would be even nicer if he wasn’t glaring at her.

Groaning, Bríghid flopped back onto the bed, heedless of the mess she was making on the blankets. She couldn’t think about that, refused to. It was just nonsense kicked up by the spirits to annoy her she was sure. So what if those eyes gleamed a dark whiskey? So what if the mantel he wore resembled a lion’s mane? So what if her heart had tripped a little when he had approached?

It meant nothing. None of it.

And if she kept saying it enough she would eventually believe it.

“Well, shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at scahill42.tumblr.com. There be nerdy shit there. :)
> 
> Also, I'm using Norwegian as the Avvar language and am relying on Google translate to help me so if anything's wrong... blame Google. ;)
> 
> Translations:  
> Prøv å stoppe meg, du bakrauf.  
> -Try and stop me you ass.  
> Er alle lavlandet dette dumme? Du er dummere enn en festeringkoker på en velsigner bak  
> -Are all lowlanders this stupid? You're stupider than a festering boil on a boar's ass.  
> Gå og hold hodet på deg, du mangle løven.  
> -Go stick your head up your ass, you mangy lion.


	2. Chapter 2

Gideon knelt in one of the alcoves of the Chantry, a statue of Andraste standing before him. He wasn’t the most devout Andrastian but he believed. It was hard not to believe that, if not Andraste, then something was guiding him throughout this whole journey. Ever since the Conclave his life had been chaotic and one of the few times he was able to find some sort of solace was when he simply sat and prayed.

Perhaps prayed wasn’t wholly accurate. He was forced to admit that he did his fair share of silent venting but if he couldn’t vent to Andraste who could he vent to? Certainly with none of the sisters here. Half regarded him with reverence, the other half still whispered amongst each other, eyeing him warily. He was on friendly enough terms with most of his companions, some more than others, but he didn’t as of yet have that close connection he craved. Gideon had always been a rather outgoing person so to be faced with so much distrust was unnerving to say the least. There was one perhaps that he felt that there could be something more but with everything that was happening it was foolish to want to pursue anything besides friendship.

Wasn’t it?

If he was honest with himself, a lot of the time he felt like the middle child trying to keep the peace between siblings with all the bickering that surrounded him. He should be used to it considering he’d often played a similar role growing up, acting as both mediator and buffer between Bríghid and essentially the rest of the family. After she left he couldn’t be faulted for thinking that perhaps he could step back from that role but it was one he played for so long that both friends and family looked to him to help calm whatever fire they had started. It had even followed him to the Chantry and his studies. Perhaps that was just his destiny.

A undignified snort came out almost unbidden. Destiny. What the hell did he know about destiny? His life had been well sorted out, he busy with his studies of Thedas history and lore, fully expecting to live out his days as a historian in the Chantry. But then war broke out between the mages and templars and the Divine called the Conclave in hopes of ending the conflict. He’d joined her eagerly, wanting to help and do whatever was needed to end this senseless war. Thinking back now, he marvelled at how naive he’d been, thinking that he, in the lowly position he was in, could have effected any real change. And now here he was, the Herald of Andraste, marked and chosen against his will but he had accepted it and the responsibilities that came with it.

And now his baby sister appears from out of nowhere, back from the dead, claiming that it was she who was supposed to bear the mark. Hearing that it was all a big mistake was like getting a knife to the back.

It was just too much to believe.

Bríghid had always been a bit wild, straining under the strictures of their parents. She wasn’t meant for pretty salons and flouncy dresses. Nor for the incense-filled halls of the Chantry. Their parents had been unnecessarily rigid with her, something he could never understand. They’d tried their damndest to force her into the mold of the daughter they wanted. When she turned sixteen they’d told her in no uncertain terms that she would either marry or join a cloister. There was no regard given for her happiness, something he would never forgive his parents for. And that was part of the reason he hadn’t stopped her when she left Ostwick all those years ago. In fact he’d given her what money he had to help ensure her safety. He knew that she was more than capable of taking care of herself; she, like him, had trained with their father’s master at arms. A little secret that was kept between the three of them.

Sighing heavily, he looked up at the statue of Andraste, her stone face impassive and cold. How he wished that he could get answers, direction. He wasn’t meant for leadership, not like this. He didn’t want to be a holy symbol, and yet it seemed as if destiny, fate, or the Maker had seen it fit that he be both.

“I didn’t think to find you here. I thought that you would be with your sister.”

Heavy footsteps announced Cassandra’s arrival even before she spoke. A slight smile tugged at his lips. He should have known that she would find him here.

“We talked. And then we decided we needed some space,” he said, standing up and turning towards her. He shifted on his feet, not knowing what to do with his hands, and tried to keep a calm expression on his face. Cassandra, for all her hard edges, sparked something in him. Something he hadn’t ever expected to find, especially not here.

“So it wasn’t exactly the happy reunion we witnessed earlier?”

“I’m happy beyond words to see her,” he said. Glancing about, he spied a nearby bench and sat down, resting his forearms on his thighs. After a moment’s hesitation, Cassandra joined him on the bench, her spine straight as she stared ahead without looking at him. “I thought that she was dead. She’s been gone for over ten years. I haven't heard from her in six years. I… I grieved for her. And to find out that she’s alive? Has been living among the Avvar for all these years? I just… I just don’t know.”

“And now you have her back,” Cassandra said quietly. “Not all are so lucky.”

Gideon shot her a quick glance as guilt flushed through him. He knew of course that she had lost her brother Anthony and that his loss pained her still, so he must seem all sorts of ungrateful to be hiding away in the Chantry instead of being with Bríghid.

“I’m sorry, Cassandra,” he said, giving voice to his thoughts. “You must think me the most churlish wretch.”

“Not as much as you think.” Cassandra took a deep breath before speaking again. “Families are complicated things. We don’t get to choose who our family is, so we try to make the best of it.”

“Truer words.” He glanced at her, contemplating his next words. “She’s a lot like you in some ways, fighting against the role laid out for her. Our parents, well, they didn’t really know what to do with her. She wasn’t the compliant daughter they wanted. She’s loud, brash, and given to temper if pushed the wrong way. They tried to marry her off to some Antivan merchant and she’d told them in no uncertain terms that she’d rather shovel horseshit for the rest of her life than marry some jacked-up popinjay with no regard for what she wanted.”

“Your sister does seem rather,” she paused, searching for the right word. “Forceful. Cullen is certain that she insulted him several times.”

Gideon laughed. “Oh, she did, and none of it was flattering at all, I can guarantee it.”

Cassandra looked at him now, her eyebrows raised. “You speak Avvar?”

“A little. Enough to probably get myself in trouble. But I also know my sister and her _very_ colorful way with words no matter what language she speaks. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that she translated that vulgarity into Avvar. From what I know of the Avvar, they probably applauded her talents and taught her new and creative ways to insult people.”

“I forget that you were a scholar before all this happened.”

“Yes, well, that life is behind me. At least for now.” Probably gone forever, he thought bitterly to himself. Sure he could swing a sword as well as the next person but he’d much rather be elbow deep in books and history than blood and guts. In his darker moments he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it out of this alive.

A hand lay upon his, rough calluses brushing against his skin. Surprised, Gideon looked up, meeting Cassandra’s eyes. The Seeker wasn’t often one for physical contact that didn’t involve a sword and shield, so it meant something that she reached out now.

“Gideon, this path you’re on, whether it’s as the Maker wills it or it’s bad luck, I have no doubts in your victory. We will win this.”

A corner of his lips twitched with humor. “And to think, a month and a half ago you were ready to see me put to trial and executed.” He nudged into her shoulder with his. “I knew you’d warm up to me eventually.”

“I never wanted you execut-. Oh, you are joking.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t happen that often but I can make one.” He smiled at her, noticing the slight flush on her cheeks. That was interesting, just as much as her voluntarily reaching out to touch him was. Could there be a softer side to the hardened warrior he’d come to know?

They sat there for several minutes, listening to one of the sisters recite the Chant of Light, before Cassandra spoke again.

“Did your sister say why she decided to leave the Avvar and come here?”

Gideon hesitated, knowing that the truth could very well land Bríghid back in the prison cells. Or worse. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what to think of it himself. He had travelled through time so hearing that an Avvar mage could see glimpses of the future shouldn’t have been such a hard concept to grasp and yet it was. As his frown deepened, he realized something. Maybe it wasn’t so much that the Avvar auger had seen the future but more what that future was supposed to be. Bríghid claimed that it was supposed to be her who wore the mark. He rubbed it with his thumb. He thought he’d come to terms with the situation but knowing that if not for her stubbornness at being told what to do that she would be the Herald, that was a hard thing to take. He was a believer and _he_ had trouble with the reverence that many showed him, he couldn’t imagine how Bríghid react if she were in the same situation. Not well he guessed. She definitely won’t make any friends here with her views on the Maker and the Chantry.

Clearing his throat he began to speak. “From my studies and what Bríghid’s told me, I’ve learned that the Avvar have a much different approach to magic and spirits than how you or I would see it. They don’t have templars for one. I strongly suspect that Solas would look kindly upon their views. To a point of course.” He grimaced. He and the elven mage had butted heads more than once in regards to his views on magic and the Fade, and Gideon couldn’t help but get the feeling that the elf thought himself superior to all those around him. There was an arrogance there that rubbed him the wrong way.

“Bríghid claims that the clan’s auger, another term for mage,” he said at Cassandra’s confused look. “She claims that this woman could see the future and that Bríghid needed to be here to help with the Breach.” He purposely left out the part about her being the one to wear the mark, knowing that such knowledge would be dangerous were it to get out. Even as mad as he was at her over it, he still loved Bríghid and wanted to protect her even if she didn’t think she needed it. It was going to be enough of a challenge as it was with her just being here without all the other baggage.

“That’s… it’s quite a story,” Cassandra said slowly as if she wasn’t exactly sure how to respond.

“I know, right? But if time travel is possible it’s not a hard leap to believe that people can see the future. I mean, prophecies are a consistent thing throughout history regardless of their veracity or basis in reality.” He turned to her then, facing her fully so he could look her in the eye. “Cassandra, I would prefer that the others not know this. Not yet anyway. Before you say anything I know that Leliana and Cullen will demand answers, I’m just asking for some time.”

“Of course, I understand, but they will only be put off for so long. In fact, I’m sure that Leliana has already sent out some crows.”

“Of that I have no doubt. I would just like to avoid incidents like this afternoon as much as possible.”

“From what I heard it was quite the ordeal.”

Gideon let out a snort. “I have no doubt. She always did fight dirty. How do you think I got my broken nose?”

Cassandra gave him a wry smile. “I may or may not have done something similar to Anthony when we were younger.”

Gideon laughed heartily at that, the sound of it echoing throughout the Chantry earning him several glares and at least one sister shushing him which only caused him to laugh harder. Clearly torn between amusement and exasperation, Cassandra shook her head even as her smile grew wider. “They will kick you out if you don’t quiet down, Herald of Andraste or no.”

“Well, we can’t have that happen, can we?” His stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly. He gave her a sheepish grin when her smile started to turn into a frown. “Okay, okay, you got me. I’ll go get something to eat.”

“See that you do,” she said, standing up. “We need to close the Breach soon and it wouldn’t do for you to faint due to lack of food. What would the people say if they saw that? Just think of the scandal.”

Gideon sat there, struck dumb. “You. Did you? What?”

Now it was Cassandra’s turn to chuckle. “You’re not the only one who can tell a joke on occasion.”

Gideon watched her walk to the back of the Chantry and disappear into the War Room. It crossed his mind that he could have asked her to join him but she was already gone before the thought had fully formed in his mind. His stomach growled again, prompting him to stand up and head toward the doors. He heard Mother Gisele’s soft voice behind him as she spoke with one of the sisters and resisted the urge to go back and talk with her more about the history of the Inquisition. She was one of the few people he could talk with intelligently about history, something he sorely missed.

His stomach rumbled again as he exited the Chantry and made his way to the tavern. Night had fallen and lanterns lit the pathways of Haven. A gust of wind blew through the village, bringing with it fresh air that washed away the cloying scent of the incense they burned in the Chantry. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes briefly and tried to center himself. He had a feeling that he was going to need to hoard as many moments of peace as he could. He prayed that closing the Breach would be the end of it but he had a horrible feeling that this was just the beginning.

* * *

She wasn’t pouting, Bríghid told herself, she wasn’t. It was more like brooding actually. More than an hour’s worth, true, but she wasn’t pouting. And who could blame her even if she was? She knew she fucked up by not heeding Gróa’s warnings and now her brother had taken the role she was meant to. This responsibility should have never fallen on his shoulders. She didn’t regret for a moment leaving home when she did; if she hadn’t, her parents would have married her off to that Antivan asshole or send her to a Chantry cloister where she’d never see the light of day again. Neither had been an acceptable option to her so she had left; first spending time in the Free Marches, avoiding the worst of the Blight before she travelled to Ferelden, feeling something pulling her there. She hadn’t been sure what drew her there until she met Baldr again. Though she wasn’t keen on the concept, it did feel like fate when the Light-foot clan had taken her in almost without question. Sure there had been a few members who kicked up a fuss about letting a pathetic lowlander into their clan, but a glare from Gróa and Bríghid’s own capabilities soon quieted any grumbling. They had become her family in a short amount of time, one that she fought to stay with.

And now Gideon, the only blood member of her family that she cared about, was paying the price for her stubbornness.

Sighing, she pulled out a clean pair of leathers and a tunic and headed out to find the bathhouse. She’d been travelling for nearly three weeks without resting except for a couple hours of sleep here and there. Her adopted siblings Frey and Astrid had wanted to come with her but Baldr and Gróa both forbade them, saying that it was a journey that Bríghid had to make herself. While she knew she was more than capable of taking care of herself it would be nice to have a familiar face at her side right now. Even Gideon was somewhat of a stranger to her, and she to him if she were to be honest. It had been ten years after all since they had last seen each other. A handful of letters just wasn't the same.

Snatching one of Gideon’s spare cloaks, she left the cottage and went in search of the bathhouse. Haven was unusually quiet. She expected there to be more people out and about but she spied only a few people roaming the pathways that wound through the village. People stared at her as she made her way across the village, whispering behind their hands as they quickened their step. Bríghid sighed. She couldn’t really blame them for their skittishness. Her arrival in Haven had caused quite the commotion and she knew her appearance must seem quite barbaric to them but that was sort of the point. Using mud-paint was meant to cause fear in one’s enemies and it worked quite well, too well in this instance but there was nothing she could do about it but move forward and hope that the damage was minimal.

Light spilled out from the tavern, raucous laughter filling the air as she passed. As much as she could use a drink she knew that now was not the time. Bath first then drinking and socializing later. She needed to assimilate back into this world somewhat so that she could help Gideon and that meant getting to know the people around him. Bearing the mark was no longer an option but she would do everything in her power to see that he was successful.

When she finally found the bathhouse she couldn’t help but smile a little at it. The building was set into the mountain probably in an attempt to keep the heat in. One of the things she had missed while she lived with clan Light-foot was ready access to regular hot baths. Sure there was the occasional hot spring but it just wasn’t the same as being able to soak in hot water that didn’t have the slight acrid smell of sulfur. Once inside her smile faltered a little. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, casting weak light about the room. It was even smaller on the inside with a half dozen wooden tubs, most of which had seen better days. She knew that the fledgling Inquisition was still relatively small in numbers but a part of her had expected conditions to be better than this. Seeing this she realized for the first time just how fragile the Inquisition was and that just the wrong push could tear it apart.

Looking around she spied a gigantic cask bigger than a druffalo taking up most of the far wall. A metal bucket sat below it, dirt caking the rim. Setting her fresh clothes next to the closest tub, she sighed and went about the laborious task of filling it. Half expecting the water to be near freezing she was pleasantly surprised when it came out warm. Looking closer at the cask she noticed that some clever person had installed a fire rune into the side. Still, it took her nearly twenty minutes to fill the tub to half full. Deciding that was close enough she stripped and gingerly stepped in. The rough wood rubbed against her skin as she sat down and started to scrub three weeks of road dirt and mud-paint off her. She pulled her hair to the side, the ends wet and ran the coarse cloth along her neck and shoulders. Water dribbled down her skin, taking with it sweat and dirt and soon enough the water had turned a murky grey. Wishing that she could linger, Bríghid reluctantly stood up and reached for the pail of water she had left next the the tub and poured it over her head. A slight shiver ran through her as the cooled water ran over her skin but she took solace in the fact that she was clean.

She had stepped out of the tub and was just wrapping a bath sheet around her when she heard a shuffling outside the door. Living with the Avvar, no one really made a big deal about nudity but she wasn’t with the Avvar now and despite the bathhouse being communal she didn’t know these people and didn’t trust them, especially when she was essentially buck-ass naked and she had yet to get her weapons back from the Inquisition’s commander. She slunk back further into the shadows, her eyes trained on the door, wishing that she had a least grabbed one of Gideon's daggers. The doorknob rattled as the door opened, moonlight spilling in and back-lighting the person entering, putting their face in shadow but she didn’t need to see the face to know who it was. The giant fur mantle was more than enough of a clue.

If Bríghid believed in the Maker she would be thinking that he was having a great laugh at her expense right now.

 _This cannot be happening_ , she thought, silently swearing viciously as she edged closer to her clothes. Luck was against her when her foot struck the stool, sending her clothes tumbling to the floor. Cullen spun around, squinting into the corner where she stood and was brought up short when he saw her.

“My apologies, I didn’t think anyone would be here this late, I-.” He trailed off as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and she saw the instant he recognized her. His nostrils flared and his jaw tightened and his cheeks tinged red as he stared at her. “You. What are you doing here?”

Bríghid narrowed her eyes and straightened her shoulders, pretending that she was in full armor and not wearing only a thin bath sheet. “I would think that it’s fairly obvious as this is a bathhouse afterall. Or am I not allowed bathing privileges? I would have thought that being let out of the jail cell meant I wasn’t a prisoner anymore,” she said harshly, her chin jutting out defiantly. Of all the people who had to barge in here why did it have to be him?

Her statement seemed to deflate his annoyance somewhat as he rubbed the back of his neck. Bríghid watched as his eyes looked everywhere but at her. “No, I mean yes. Of course you do. I just wasn’t expecting… Maker’s breath, can’t you put some clothes on?”

If he’d been anyone else she wouldn’t have hesitated in dropping the bath sheet, putting her in full view, but it was him and she found that she needed even that thin barrier. Damn Gróa and her visions.

“If you’d turn around I’d be more than happy to do so and leave you in peace.”

“Since when do Avvar make a show of modesty? You go into battle nearly naked except for some mud and leather.”

Bríghid inhaled sharply and she felt her temper rising. “The nudity is a choice and I choose not to reveal myself to a goat-kissing halfwit with no manners.” Perhaps if she stayed angry she could ignore the heat flushing through her skin as he stared at her.

Cullen opened his mouth to respond but he snapped it shut, rubbing his hand over his face. “My apologies, Lady Trevelyan, that was unconscionably rude of me.”

“Apology accepted,” she said. He started to relax and then she spoke again. “But if you ever call me Lady Trevelyan again you’re going to find my fist in your face and this time I won’t miss your nose. And you’re still staring.”

Cullen spun on his heel without saying a word but she could tell by the way he held himself that he was furious. She got the feeling that he wasn’t used to having insults flung at him, too used to being in charge. Deciding not to press her luck, she dressed quickly, vowing that the next time she bathed she was going to bar the door to stop this from happening again. Without saying a word, she crossed to the door, intent on leaving as quickly as possible. She was just out the door when he spoke again.

“The Herald and the advisors are meeting in the morning. You’ll want to be there.”

Bríghid turned, unable to stop the glare she aimed at him. “And just why would I want that? Are you going to put me on trial like you did with my brother?”

“That can be arranged, if you wish. You did assault several scouts after all. It would be remiss of us if we didn’t address that.”

“You try and put me back in a cell and you’ll get more than a bloody nose,” she growled.

“Maker’s balls, this doesn’t have to be so difficult. Stop being a brat and just be there,” he said sharply. Before she could respond he slammed the door shut leaving her out in the cold. She stood there for a moment and just stared at the closed door. An ache grew in her chest as she stood there and she violently shoved it down. No, she would not let him get to her.

 _Too late_ , a voice whispered in the back of her head.

“Oh, fuck off,” she said quietly before spinning on her heel and storming away. She had only gone about five feet before she realized that she had left her cloak inside. Swearing, she turned back and scowled at the closed door, debating whether or not it was worth another confrontation just to retrieve it. Before she could decide a soft whinny carried over the wind. Distracted from her ire, she followed the noise. After a few minutes she came around a corner and found herself staring at a paddock lined with stables on both sides. Bríghid approached the fence and felt her chest lighten. A half dozen horses milled around in the paddock, some munching on hay while a stableboy sat on a stool, his head dropped back in sleep as drool pooled at the corner of his mouth.

Placing a hand on the fence, Bríghid breathed in deeply and let it out slowly. A sense of wistful calm washed over her as she watched these proud animals before her. She missed the horses clan Light-foot raised and missed Vidarson most of all. She’d been there the day he was foaled, had seen him take his first steps and watched him grow into the proud animal and hold-beast he was today. Leaving the clan had hurt, leaving Vidarson behind had nearly broken her heart but she couldn’t take the clan’s hold-beast with her. As much as she believed otherwise, Vidarson was not hers, he belonged to the clan.

Her vision blurred and she angrily wiped away the tears. Looking up she saw the Breach and had to restrain herself from screaming at it. The Breach and the person who had caused it had torn her from her family. She put her other hand on the fence and bowed her head until it touched the beam. Tears continued to flow but this time she didn’t bother to stop them. Bríghid had thought that she’d finished her grieving but seeing these horses with the Breach swirling angrily overhead brought up all the feelings she’d stuffed down since she left the clan.

Her chest tightened as she tried to choke back a sob but the dam was broken and they came in earnest. Something nuzzled her hair, making a snuffling sound as coarse whiskers tickled against her skin. Raising her head, Bríghid looked up to find one of the horses standing before her. The moon shone against it’s dark hide as she slowly held out her hand for the horse to inspect. As it’s muzzle sniffed the palm of her hand she let out a watery laugh. She raised her other hand and stroked down it’s forehead, brushing aside the forelock, revealing a jagged scar trailing down it’s forehead. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the mark and she touched her own face, her fingers tracing the long jagged scar that slashed down the right side of her face.

“I see you’ve been marked as well, my friend. We could make quite a pair, don’t you think?”

The horse chuffed and moved closer so that it’s head rested on the back of her shoulder. Bríghid swallowed heavily, feeling tears slip down her face again. She turned her face into it’s cheek and sighed heavily, feeling at peace for the first time in a long time.

Thirty feet away Cullen stood at the crest of the hill staring at the scene below. He’d spied her cloak not long after he slammed the bathhouse door on her and had cursed heavily. The temptation was there to just forget about it and take the bath he sorely wanted but his better nature took over. Despite the fact that they’d barely spoken one civil word between them he couldn’t let her walk back without the cloak, not with the winter winds blowing through the village. Only a couple of minutes had passed but when he exited the bathhouse he could see no sign of her on the path that led back to the Herald’s cottage. He saw the bright flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see Bríghid disappear around the corner of the path, heading toward the stables.

“What in the Maker’s name?” Cullen rubbed his face with his hand, wishing that he could just let this go. The woman had survived alone in the wilds for weeks as she made her way here, she could survive the village without a cloak. And she probably wouldn’t thank him. It was more likely that she’d take insult. He’d never met a more prickly person in his life. He started to turn back to the bathhouse when the wind decided to pick up, curling it’s icy fingers around him. Sighing he followed after her, wishing that just once his sense of responsibility was just a tiny bit less.

He’d just reached the top of the hill when he spied her standing at the fence to the paddock, her head bowed, resting against the fence. Even at this distance he could hear her sobs. Cullen stared down at her, somewhat dumbfounded at the sight. He’d known her barely half a day but wouldn’t have expected to see an emotional outburst like this from her. Anger, yes. Snark, yes. Sadness that came out in heavy waves, no.

He was so focused on her that he almost didn’t see one of the horses approach her and nuzzle her head. Cullen wasn’t exactly sure what he was witnessing but it bordered on something holy. Bríghid lifted her head and he watched in wonder as woman and horse communed. There were stories of course, of people who could form special bonds with animals, but he’d never witnessed it before. If anyone were to ask him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to put into words what he witnessed.

He looked down at the cloak in his hands and then back at Bríghid, conflicted as to what to do. He’d followed her with the intent of giving it back but knew in his gut that he shouldn’t interrupt this moment. It was fair to say that he wouldn’t be welcome were he to approach, so he gave her one last look before he turned away and walked slowly back to the bathhouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at scahill42.tumblr.com. There be nerdy shit there. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is an AU of my slightly AU canon playthrough in where Bríghid _does_ spend nearly ten years with the Avvar but makes it to the Conclave and becomes the Herald (lucky her). I've incepted myself. YAY!
> 
> Also, I'm using Norwegian as the Avvar language and am relying on Google translate to help me so if anything's wrong... blame Google. ;)
> 
> Translations:  
>  _Prøv å stoppe meg, du bakrauf._  
>  -Try and stop me you ass.  
>  _Er alle lavlandet dette dumme? Du er dummere enn en festeringkoker på en velsigner bak_  
>  -Are all lowlanders this stupid? You're stupider than a festering boil on a boar's ass.  
>  _Gå og hold hodet på deg, du mangle løven._  
>  -Go stick your head up your ass, you mangy lion.


End file.
